


The Tale of the Three Princes

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Animal Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Sexual Abuse obliquely mentioned, Childhood Trauma, Gen, No S04, References to Depression, Sorry Not Sorry, redbeard is a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 04:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17822222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Sherlock is suffering from one of his black moods. John's efforts to help lead Sherlock to tell his friend a fairy tale. It's a dark and disturbing story, but it's just a fairy tale.Isn't it?





	The Tale of the Three Princes

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This deals with child abuse. The mention of child sexual abuse if very oblique, as in blink and you miss it, but it is there, so if that might trigger you, please move along. There's nothing graphic, though.
> 
> Timeline: A few months after the boys moved in together.
> 
> Enjoy!

John had seen Sherlock in black moods before, but this one was an order of magnitude beyond anything he'd witnessed to date. Usually, his friend would perk up after a couple of days, or as soon as an interesting case presented itself, whichever came first. This was well into the fourth day, though, and for all John's tea and coaxing, Sherlock had stirred from the sofa only to take care of his most basic needs. John's medical training screamed at him that this had to be dealt with now, before the mood spiraled any deeper. Marshalling his arguments, he braced himself and stepped over to the sofa. 

"Sherlock," he addressed the inert lump inhabiting the couch, "We have to talk." 

The blue eyes flickered dully. "No. Go away." 

"Not a chance," John breathed. "This can't go on; it's going to affect your health. And before you say the word 'transport,' may I ask you where that enormous brain of yours would be without a transport to haul it around?" 

Sherlock's reply was to wrap himself more tightly in his blanket and close his eyes. 

"I said I'm not leaving, no matter how hard you ignore me. This is getting to the point where we need to think about medication. I won't lie to you; that's going to be a process. We may have to try different things, even combinations of things, tweak dosages and so forth...but don't you think it'd be worth it not to feel like this anymore?" 

"No," Sherlock snapped without opening his eyes. 

"No, you don't think it'd be worth it, or no, you won't take medication?" 

"Both." 

"All right, there are other things we can try. Exercise can help. It's probably the last thing you want to do right now, but why don't you get dressed and join me for a stroll? Not much; we'll just take a turn around the block. Maybe the fresh air will spark your appetite. I can throw together something to eat once we get in." 

"No." 

John closed his own eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting back the rising tide of his frustration. But then, he remembered his own experience: when he had first returned from Afghanistan, he had _hated_ people who tried to cajole him from his mood. Several times, he had trembled on the verge of enforcing his wish for privacy with his fists. But he also remembered long evenings spent toying with his gun, trying to decide whether to see the sun rise. If Sherlock was feeling anything like that, he certainly couldn't leave this alone. 

The doctor opened his eyes and studied his flatmate. Even though Sherlock was lying on the sofa, he seemed far from relaxed. His hands were fisted tightly, clutching the blanket, his shoulders were rigid and his jaw clenched. John felt a wave of sympathy wash over him for the obvious pain the man was in. Before he quite realised what he was doing, he leaned forward and brushed an errant curl off his friend's forehead, stroking his fingers through the raven locks. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and John stepped back, afraid he'd crossed the line. 

To his surprise, however, Sherlock made a soft mew of protest and reached out, guiding his friend's hand back to his head. "Felt good," he murmured, letting his eyes drift closed again. 

"You like that?" John asked, nonplussed. Sherlock was usually touch-averse, but there was no denying his positive response to this. "Right, budge up then; I can't lean over you all day." 

The two men positioned themselves so Sherlock's head was comfortably ensconced in John's lap. After a few minutes, the detective commented, "Mycroft used to do this when I was little, when I got sick. He'd stroke my head while he read to me." 

John smiled at the image this conjured (although, for some reason, in his mind's eye, pre-teen Mycroft was still wearing a three-piece suit.) "What'd he read then, fairy tales?" 

"Fairy tales?" Sherlock scoffed. "Ghastly things. Did you know, in the original version, Snow White's wicked stepmother is brought to her wedding and fitted with red-hot iron shoes that she must dance in until she dies?" 

"Pretty grim stuff," John replied. "Disney left that out, didn't he?" 

"Indeed he did." Silence reigned for a minute, then Sherlock said, "I know a grim fairy tale. Would you like to hear it?" 

"Sure." 

"All right." The younger man drew a deep breath and started, "Once upon a time, ever so long ago, a king and queen lived in a beautiful palace. In time, their union was blessed by the birth of the Crown Prince. He was a wonderful child, fair of face and so smart he could tell you all about a book even before he read it. He had the gift of Charm, so everyone loved him and counted themselves lucky he was their prince. 

"Three years later, the King and Queen were blessed again. This prince was not nearly as fair as the Crown Prince, for he loved the royal cakes too much and was rather round in the middle. He was nearly as smart, though. He had the gift of Sight, to tell a stranger's whole life story with a single glance. 

"Seven years went by and the King and Queen were surprised by the arrival of the littlest Prince. He was much fairer of face than the Middle Prince and not quite so smart, but he was more clever. He also had the gift of Sight, although at the time of this telling, he was too little to do much with it." 

John was shocked, although he was careful not to show it. The Middle Prince was obviously Mycroft, but then there was an older brother no one had mentioned until now? Sherlock had never been forthcoming about his youth, but leaving out a brother? Perhaps this-- Tale of the Three Princes? -- would explain that. 

Sherlock continued: "One day, when the Little Prince was four, the Crown Prince took him into the woods in back of the palace. There, the Crown Prince showed him how he would hunt. Not a fine, fancy hunt, with horses and hounds, but a hunt for the small, scrabbling creatures: hedgehogs and voles, and a nest of baby bunnies. He sharpened sticks and skewered the creatures to the ground, laughing as they waved their little paws and tried to get away. Then the Little Prince looked with his Sight, and saw that the Crown Prince was actually an ogre, who wore his fairness of face and Charm like a costume. The ogre bound the Little Prince with a terrible oath, that on the day he should breathe a word of the things that were to happen, their mother, the Lady Queen, would die a horrible death. 

"So the Crown Prince brought the Little Prince to his chambers, where he studied the art of pain. So skilled was he in his art, he could cause excruciating pain without ever leaving a bruise or a mark. He even harnessed the power of lightning bolts, causing them to run through the Little Prince's body. He would look in the Little Prince's eyes as he hurt him, drinking his pain, and when he had had enough, he would force the Little Prince into servitude, polishing his royal sceptre with his hands or mouth." 

"Jesus," John breathed, horrified. Sherlock quirked his eyebrows at him. 

"Just a fairy tale, John. I did warn you it was a grim one." 

"So you did," John replied, schooling his voice to steadiness. Reassured no emotional outburst would be forthcoming, Sherlock continued his narrative. 

"One day, when the Little Prince was eight, the King and Queen were to take the Middle Prince for a weekend, to prepare him for a summer programme at the Halls Of Wisdom. This meant the Little Prince would be alone with the ogre for two days. He wanted to avoid that at all costs, so he begged to come with. When that didn't work, he cried, and when that didn't work, he screamed. And when that didn't work, he threw himself at the Middle Prince, trying to hurt him so he would have to stay. But the Crown Prince picked him up and held him, and used his Charm to convince the King and Queen that all would be well. So they left. 

"When they were gone, the ogre brought the Little Prince to his chambers, and he also brought the Royal Dog, which was something he'd never done before. He spoke to the Little Prince about the studies he was doing in his dark art; a quest to find the very worst kind of pain. He'd decided it was flaying, and he declared his intention to do such to the Lady Queen, pulling her skin off a little at a time, until she cried and begged to die. 

Then the Little Prince felt the breath leave his body, for he had sworn his terrible oath to keep his mother from the clutches of the ogre, and now he saw it had all been for naught. All the pain the ogre had drunk from him had only increased his thirst, not slaked it. The ogre cried, "I'll show you," and tore a strip of skin from the Royal Dog's belly. The dog yelped and cried, and the ogre's eyes gleamed while he roared with pleasure. 

"The Little Prince ran then, understanding that if the Crown Prince no longer cared about leaving marks, surely death was at his heels. He ran to the King's private chamber, where he knew the King kept a magic wand that spat fire and thunder. This was in a locked treasure chest, but the Little Prince knew he had to get it open, and his need gave him the strength of ten men. 

"The ogre was close behind him, and when he saw the Little Prince with the wand in his hand, he laughed. he reached for it, and the gu -- the wand -- it, umm..." Sherlock's breath hitched, and he swallowed hard, then pressed on. "It was so loud. It was so loud, and there was so much blood, the whole castle was painted red with it. A mist descended over the Little Prince's eyes, and he knew no more. 

"When he came to himself some days later, the King and Queen were there, and they told him all was well. They had found the magic mirror the Crown Prince used that held images of the things he forced the Little Prince to do, and they had also found the instruments of his dark art. They told the Little Prince he had been very brave to slay the ogre. The King made a decree that no one should ever again say the name of the Crown Prince. The royal portrait was burned, and he was laid in an unmarked grave. Thus, he was erased from the royal family. 

"And that's where everyone is supposed to live happily ever after, but this is a grim fairy tale, so it doesn't work that way. You see, what the Little Prince never told anybody was that he was happy he'd killed the Crown Prince. And when he looked in the mirror with his Sight, he saw that he too was an ogre. And would be one until he died. The end." 

John swallowed down the lump in his throat and asked, "Did the King and Queen call in any wise men to help the Little Prince?" 

Sherlock snorted, "Oh, many, many. At least they told the King and Queen they were wise men, but the Little Prince could see they were really jesters, with foolscaps and bells on their shoes. They played their pipes and the Little Prince learned to dance the way they wanted him to, then they left him alone." 

"Would the adult prince see a wise man, if we could find one that isn't a jester?" John asked. 

"They're all jesters," Sherlock replied shortly. 

"We could go on a quest to find one that isn't." 

"ALL jesters," Sherlock insisted, snapping a glare at his friend. 

"OK," John demurred, and once he felt Sherlock relax again, he ventured, "That isn't the end of the story, though." 

"No?" 

"No. You see, the Little Prince grew up to become a knight, a white knight who fights on the side of justice. He's slain many dragons and rescued many damsels, and the kingdom is safer for having him in it." 

"Damsels, eh?" Sherlock echoed, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

"One of a knight's main jobs, keeping the damsels safe." 

The detective chuckled at that, then added, "Still not the end of the story. After a time, the White Knight found a Warrior to fight alongside him, a companion brave and true. He couldn't make the Knight good -- not enough magic in the Kingdom for that -- but he made the Knight _want_ to be good and that's a start." 

"Yes, it is." 

Sherlock grinned up at John, and the doctor was relieved to see some spark had returned to his eyes. "One of the Warrior's chief talents is to make a magic potion which warms and soothes. Especially when made with milk and two sugars?" 

John snorted at this. "Right, one pot of potion coming up. But listen, you've got to eat something with it, yeah?" 

"If I must," Sherlock grumbled, and sat up. "Look, you broke the spell." 

"Actually, I think you broke it, by talking about it. I'm glad you did, but I'm curious: why now?" 

The younger man followed his flatmate into the kitchen, settling into a chair before pronouncing, "May 12th." 

"May 12th?" John frowned as he filled the kettle. "That was four days ago. What -- ah. Anniversary." 

Sherlock nodded and waited pensively as John put together tea and sandwiches for them. Once his friend was seated across from him, he blurted, "John, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't repeat -- this --" 

"Never," the doctor affirmed. "Besides, it was just a fairy tale." 

-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> I had just gotten into the Sherlock fandom, and I read a meta that purported Sherlock is the way he is because he was not only abused, but he killed his abuser, aka "the other one." Fandom at the time held the opinion this was an older sibling named Sherrinford, so I ran with it. It became kind of a head canon with me, because the Eurus thing never sat right with me. There is no evidence whatsoever of a third sibling in the Holmes household. If Mummy Holmes lost her daughter at a young age, regardless of her pathology, surely she would still have at least a photo, and there is no way she would let all memory of her be squashed. Sherlock "told himself a better story" and so the family decided to support that delusion? It just doesn't scan for me. But an older brother guilty of so great a crime...the family may well decide to erase his memory. Anyway, that's my take on it.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my little speculation. Leave comments and kudos! Pleeeze?


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